


Silent Lucidity

by Quiltaday



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 17:41:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13792782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiltaday/pseuds/Quiltaday
Summary: This story contains an extremely high angst level, and may be intensely emotional. Anything more will spoil the story. Please see author's note at the end of the story. Inspired by the song from Queensrÿche.





	Silent Lucidity

 

"I can't believe you actually ate that." Blair laughed as the two men walked down the sidewalk of Bering Street, stopping occasionally to gaze through the windows at the Christmas merchandise that filled the shops. Absently, he rubbed his neck, still stiff from once again waking up at the table in front of his laptop, it's screen saver carrying on with it's business contentedly. “The whole thing.” He laughed.

"What?" Jim asked innocently, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The detective had, in fact, eaten a one pound beefalo burger. Complete with all the works and a large order of fries. Not to mention a rather hefty slice of lemon meringue pie to top it all off.  Blair was sure his partner would have licked the plate had they not been in public.

"What?" Blair mimicked, "When you keel over dead from a heart attack before you're forty, don't you come crying to me. Just make sure your will is updated. My name's Sandburg, that's spelled S A N D ..." He was interrupted by a good-natured swat to the back of his head.

The next thirty seconds were a blur.

Thirty seconds that he could never get back.

How exactly it all happened, Blair Sandburg could not recall. A door opened, and a man ran out of the store, twisting around while wild eyes desperately searched for an escape from the crowd people who panicked at the sight of a man waving a gun about. Jim had had no chance to go on the offensive, rather reacting to get the civilians out of harm’s way with an authoritative, “Everyone get down!”. In reaction to Ellison’s words – perhaps sensing that he was a police officer – the armed man swung his gun up and opened fire, at point blank range, striking Detective Ellison several times in the chest before taking off through the sudden parting of the crowd.

“Someone call nine-one-one! Tell them there’s an officer down!” Kneeling beside his fallen Sentinel, Blair reached over and pulled Jim close, resting his head and shoulders on his own bent knees. "Hold on, man ... Help's on the way ... Just lie still ... Keep breathing."

The pleas from his partner and friend went unheard to the sentinel’s ears. Blair looked down into the eyes of his friend as he pressed his hands onto the wound in a valiant attempt to staunch the crimson flow that was pooling on the sidewalk. To buy enough precious time for the paramedics to arrive.

Jim opened his mouth to speak as blood trickled from his nose and mouth. Soft gurgling sounds formed words as he fought for each breath. "F'nsh ... d’st ... sh'n ... Use ... ev'th'n ... pub'sh ..." As the Sentinel fought for each syllable, Blair held onto him, begging for a miracle.

His miracle never came.

Holding eye contact, there were so many words left unsaid. Words that would never be spoken. "Sr’y ... Chief." breathed with one final breath. Slowly, the light dimmed and went out in the Sentinel's eyes. Detective James Ellison relaxed into Death's grip, his unseeing eyes still open.

Pulling his friend close, the younger man was oblivious of the onlookers, the blood, the approaching EMT's and police cars. Cradling the man – his friend, his mentor, his brother, his Sentinel, against his chest, Blair let out an anguished cry.

" **NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO !!!!!!** "

Keys tinkling as they were dropped into the small basket was the only noise as the two men entered the quiet loft. The tall man followed close behind his observer, silently closing the door. Captain Simon Banks didn’t speak, there were simply no words that could be articulated which could possibly act as a balm for pain of the past three hours. For just a moment, Blair looked around. Not looking at anything particular, but as if seeing it all for the first time.

His eyes caught a corner of white terrycloth peeking out of the bathroom. One of his towels that just never seemed to make it into the hamper. A sob caught, realizing he would never be chided again about how he could sink a three-point shot yet miss the hamper from inches away.

A shower, Blair decided. He really needed a shower. He was suddenly aware of Jim's blood still on his clothes and his hands, and needed it off. Without a word, he headed into his room for a change of clothes. Sitting on his bed, he allowed the events of the day to bubble to the surface. Joking about lunch. Looking at the Christmas decorations that seem to make their way out earlier and earlier every year. The man with the gun.

Holding his friend while he died.

The bustle and noise of emergency responders – he couldn’t help think how Jim would have hated the noise. The coroner's wagon taking the body away. Giving his statement, too many times. Even once was one time too many.

Rising, Blair pulled out a change of clothes from the dresser; a pair of well-worn jeans and Jim's old Cascade PD sweatshirt that always seemed to make it’s way into his laundry basket without  word. Biting back the tears, he headed for the bathroom, stopping to pick up the towels that Jim had ranted about earlier that morning. He held the towel, suddenly unable to drop it into the hamper.

The shower did nothing to ease the pain, though. Sliding down along the shower wall, Blair sat while allowing the hot stream of water to wash over him, tears flowing freely with his thoughts.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Sentinel shouldn't have died, not this way. When it was his time, Detective James Ellison should have died a hero. Not gunned down by some armed robber looking to score a few easy bucks and then panicking because he was in over his head. He should have gone down fighting, in a blaze of glory protecting his city. He should not be just another statistic in a random act of violence.

Pulling himself from the depressing thoughts that were pulling him deeper into depression and despair, Blair turned the knobs, stopping the flow of water. After drying himself and his hair – and depositing the towel in the hamper – Blair pulled on his favorite pair of jeans, fingering Jim's old sweatshirt before pulling it over his head.

His laptop was still at the dining room table where he had left it. With Jim's last words echoing in his head, the grad student opened the first notebook and began typing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Slowly, Blair came awake. Once again, he had fallen asleep at the table, a stack of papers in front of him. Looking up, he was face to face with his laptop, the screen saver carrying on with it's business contentedly.

Absently, he rubbed his neck, trying to work the kinks out of it. He heard a voice booming from somewhere overhear. A familiar voice, a kind voice that was pretending to be annoyed but not quite succeeding.

A voice Blair Sandburg would know on either side of the grave.

"Come on, Chief, shake a leg. We're gonna be late." The voice called down from the loft bedroom. “I’m not waiting for you this time.”

"Huh?" Blair was momentarily confused, almost nauseous from the conflicting thoughts and emotions. It wasn't possible. Jim was dead. He knew he was dead – he held the man as he died. He could still feel the stickiness on his hands where the detective’s blood had dried, the smell of gunpowder. “Jim?”

"Who else would it be?” Tan khakis, a bare, muscular chest, and brilliant blue eyes poked over the railing and disappeared. “Now come on, shut that thing off and let's get going while there’s still good parking. The game starts in 45 minutes." Jogging down the stairs while pulling a turtleneck sweater over his head, Ellison crossed the room and reached out as if to close the lid, “Did you save whatever you were working on? I’m not interested in a repeat of Tuesday night…”

Blair smiled and reached over, switching off the computer, “Yeah, I’m good.” Taking a deep breath to calm the hurricane within, he smiled as he closed the lid and adjusted the stack of notebooks before getting up from the table. He was definitely good. "You got the tickets?" He tried to control the emotion in his voice. There had been no shooting. No death. A dream. It had all been a dream.

"Of course I do. You think I'd have given them to you? With your housekeeping skills? I bet your towels are still on the bathroom floor." Jim snagged his jacket, and held out the other. “Well – lets move it.”

"Ha Ha.” Shoving an arm into the sleeve, he pulled the loft door closed. “Don’t quit your day job, comedy is definitely not your forte.”

The game was awesome. As if there had been any doubt it would be anything but. With the season they were having, there was no beating the Jags on their home court, and tonight proved there was no exception by taking the visiting team to the cleaners. And, as usual, Ellison complained lightheartedly about the traffic leaving the stadium. Blair's mood was not dampened in the least. He had woken up from the most realistic and terrifying dream he had ever had, to say the least, and had just won one hundred bucks, thanks to the point spread.

All was right with the world.

The companionable silence was interrupted by a growl of the stomach in the driver’s seat. "You hungry? What do you say we stop and grab a bite?"

"I could eat. Oh, hey, why don't we hit the Jamaican Hut. Their jerk goat is awesome.” He loved the spice of the authentic cuisine but never managed to eat there as often as he liked, “ It’s off State, just past Elmhurst.” Not the best part of town, but not the worst by far. “Come on, my treat."  Waggling eyebrows, “Well, compliments of the faithless boys in Vegas.”

"I just know I'm gonna regret this." The detective muttered but easily complied. Within twenty minutes he was rewarded with a tantalizing mix of the sweet and spicy smells and flavors that the Islands had to offer. The partners enjoyed an exceptionally prepared meal, and some of their usual playful banter, and Blair even forwent his running commentary about cholesterol and eating habits.

"Look, Chief, you're gonna kill yourself. Or I’m gonna kill you. Why don't you get some sleep, and do that in the morning?" The Sentinel frowned as he watched his partner sitting at his computer, doing paperwork, or research, or whatever it was he worked on into the early morning hours.

Blair pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "No, you look, mommy, I'm fine. I just need to transcribe some of these new notes. I'll just be an hour or so. Go to bed." He smiled. “I’ll be as quiet as that mouse that lives in the storage area.”

"Riiiiight.” The older man climbed the stairs, “Just make sure you're awake in the morning, Junior."

"Yes, Sir!" Blair saluted the figure disappearing up the stairs. He heard a low "Wiseass" from his partner as he turned back to his work, laughing quietly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Slowly, Blair came awake. Once again, he had fallen asleep at the table, a stack of papers in front of him. Looking up, he was face to face with his laptop, the screen saver carrying on with it's business contentedly.

Absently, he rubbed his neck, trying to work the kinks out of it. There was a soft knock at the door. Moving over to answer it, he was surprised to find Simon there, in a black suit, looking very old and very tired.

Dark eyes met his own. "It's time to go."

"Time?" he blinked, momentarily confused. Blair took a couple steps back as it all hit him. The shooting. Jim's death. The funeral. Simon had come to take him to the funeral. There had been no game, no dinner.

It had all been a dream.

"I know it's hard, son.” A comforting hand found it’s was onto Blair’s shoulder. “Come on, let's go."

He allowed Simon to lead him out of the apartment, and down to the car. To go to the funeral.

Jim's funeral.

Blair Sandburg was sure that he was going to fall apart right then and there. It was sheer determination to honor his friend that kept the pitiful, fake smile plastered to his face. Still, he paid no attention to those who came up to him, to comfort him. To grieve with and for him. Eyes fixed unwaveringly on the casket, Blair moved to the front of the church.

Trembling, with tears threatening, he reached his hand down and placed it on his Sentinel's cheek. It was so cold. So hard. Like reality. "I'm so sorry." he whispered softly, but the sensitive hearing would never pick up his words. Never again.

It was all over too quickly. Like his friend's life. The smells of the flowers, the soft spoken words. Blair felt every one of the bullets from the military salute as if they had pierced his own heart. The kind words spoken by the minister could never, ever begin to come close to describing the man that lay in the satin lined cherry box.

Boxes used to contain all of Blair's worldly possessions.

Now a box contained his world. Not just his work or his experiences – his friend. His life. A box that was being lowered into the ground held everything.

And with a few shovels full of dirt, is was gone.

"Simon, go home." Captain Simon Banks had been hovering all afternoon. Not bothering to pretend that he was just hanging around, looking for something to do, or some other made-up reason. Simon simply stayed at the loft since the funeral, and hoovered.

Jim's funeral.

All Blair wanted – aside from his friend back – was to be left alone. He felt alone. He was alone. Now he just wanted the other occupant of the room to leave.

"Blair … " Simon began. There was so much he wanted to say, needed to say, but did not know where to start.

Blair understood. That was always how the relationship between the captain and observer worked, words were seldom needed and the gruffness was just a cover. "Please, Simon, just go. I'm fine.” A deep breath masked the hitch in his voice, “Well, definitely not fine, but I'm gonna be okay. I will be okay.” He pulled out one of the chairs at the kitchen table where his laptop still was. He never seemed to remember to put it away. He needed to get his mind off real life for a while. Was that asking too much? “I just want to get some work done."

Simon paused at the doorway, unsure. "Listen, Sandburg …"

With a sigh he felt in the depth of his soul, the grad student looked over at the captain. Jim’s captain. He saw the care, the concern in the ebony eyes. “I will call you later, I promise.” With that, Simon nodded and softly closed the door as he left. Blinking back the tears, Blair opened one of the journals, and began typing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Slowly, Blair came awake. Once again, he had fallen asleep at the table, a stack of papers in front of him. Looking up, he was face to face with his laptop, the screen saver carrying on with it's business contentedly ...  
 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

_Hush now, don't you cry. Wipe away the teardrop from your eyes._  
_You're lying safe in bed, it was all a bad dream spinning in your head._  
_Your mind tricked you to feel the pain of someone close to you leaving the game of life._  
_So here it is, another chance. Wide awake you face the day, the dream is over..._  
_...Or has it just begun?_

__

__

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**Author's final note: No, Jim is NOT dead.**

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 


End file.
